It's Just Lunch
by razztaztic
Summary: A home for random one-shots that involve the diner or otherwise take place over a meal. Each chapter unrelated to the others unless otherwise specified.
1. The Booth Moms

**_AN: I got the idea for this from the first fanfic challenge I participated in at _Bonesology_, which ended up being a conversation in the diner about bucket lists. The newest challenge had me headed back there so, okay, I give up. I concede the power of the diner. _**

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><p><strong>CHAPTER 1<strong>  
><strong>The Booth Moms<strong>

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Brennan smiled her thanks at the waitress who'd just placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of her. She stirred it absently, her attention on the new chapter she'd just begun reading in the pregnancy book that lay open in front of her. The sound of her name interrupted her concentration.

"Dr. Brennan?" Rebecca stood beside the table, offering a friendly smile.

"Hello, Rebecca," she responded, nodding at the other woman's questioning gesture to the chair immediately opposite. "Yes, of course, please join me."

"Seeley told me he was meeting you here for lunch so I offered to drop by, too, for the Parker exchange," her smile widened. "It saves everyone some time in the car." She motioned to the bowl. "Please don't let your soup get cold, though. I didn't want to interrupt your meal."

"I was hungry and decided not to wait," Brennan smiled back. "But it's still a little too hot, anyway." A moment of slightly uncomfortable silence followed, before Rebecca nodded to the book Brennan had closed when the other woman sat down.

"How are you feeling, with the baby?"

"I've experienced the common effects of pregnancy, a few weeks of morning sickness, a tendency to tire easily and a somewhat annoying emotional instability but nothing out of the ordinary." Brennan dipped her spoon into the thick soup and blew softly before taking a bite.

"I'm glad to hear that." Rebecca watched the other woman thoughtfully. "You know, I always knew there was something going on between you two."

Brennan shook her head. "Then you were incorrect. There was no romantic relationship between Booth and me until now."

Rebecca's look was disbelieving. 'Oh, come on. There was a little something behind all that "we're just partners" line you both fed everyone."

"We were partners, Rebecca. At various times, we also both pursued other romantic interests, but our relationship with each other was as partners. And friends," she added, stirring the soup.

"And now you're . . . what, exactly?" Rebecca asked archly.

Brennan considered the question for a moment. "The word partner still applies. We will still be working together, of course, but we are also partners in a new relationship that will include this child." She pursed her lips in thought. "I would say that we have added deeper layers to the meaning of the word partner, but the word itself is still appropriate."

"Hmm." Rebecca sat back in her seat. "Your relationship with Seeley is your own business, of course, but I am concerned about the effect it might have on Parker."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it was just a few months ago that Seeley introduced Parker to Hannah, because he was in love with her and he wanted her to be in Parker's life, too. And now there's you, and a new baby. Seeley just can't keep introducing new women into Parker's life. It's confusing to a young boy."

"He seems to have managed quite well meeting all of your different boyfriends over the years."

Rebecca drew a sharp breath and met Brennan's steady gaze for a long moment. "I will give you the benefit of the doubt that you didn't mean that to be as insulting as it sounded," she said finally.

"It wasn't meant as an insult at all," Brennan replied. "It was a simple statement of fact. Over the seven years I have known Booth you have been involved in several more relationships than he has, and I know for a fact that not only has Parker met them but at various times, some of those men shared a residence with you until the relationship ended. If you're concerned about Parker's confusion over family dynamics, I might suggest you consider your own behavior and not Booth's."

Rebecca's face was a mask of irritation. "You're very blunt, Dr. Brennan."

"I'm merely stating the facts. You accused Booth of behavior of which you, yourself, have engaged in even more frequently. I'm sorry if those facts are unappealing."

"I am a good mother, Dr. Brennan. Parker is very well taken care of." Her jaw tightened in anger.

"Yes, I believe that." She sipped delicately at her soup. "But more importantly, Booth also believes that. He has commented several times on your skills and aptitude as Parker's mother." She hesitated a brief moment and then added, "I wish you'd allow Booth the same opportunities."

Rebecca straightened in her chair. "What do you mean? Seeley has a very generous visitation schedule. I allow him . . ."

"Exactly," Brennan interrupted. "You _allow_ him to be Parker's father at your convenience. It's unfair to him. It's unfair to both of them."

"I don't know what you're . . ."

"Have you ever felt threatened by Booth physically?" Brennan put down the spoon and stared at Rebecca.

"Of course not!"

"Has Booth ever given you reason to think he might harm Parker?"

"No!" Rebecca's voice was shocked.

"Do you fear for Parker's safety when he's with Booth?"

"Seeley would die before he'd let anyone hurt Parker," she said fiercely.

"Then I think you should stop trying to control their relationship." Brennan picked up her spoon again.

"I don't . . ."

"Yes, you do." Brennan sighed and put the spoon down again. "You hold him strictly to the visitation schedule you originally proposed. You have a habit of conveniently forgetting to inform him of consultations with Parker's teachers until it's too late for him to make arrangements to be there. You have deliberately made holiday plans that affect Booth's time with Parker without consulting him in advance." She stared intently at Rebecca. "You behave as if you're doing Booth a favor allowing him to act like Parker's father. He _is_ Parker's father. Let him be."

"You seem to have given this a lot of thought," the blonde woman said quietly.

Brennan shrugged. "I love Parker. It's difficult enough to accept a new sibling into a family. I don't want Parker to compare his father's behavior with him with Booth's behavior with the baby. Especially when the difference is something Booth can't control." Holding Rebecca's gaze, she continued. "Booth is an excellent father. We both know that."

"Mom!" Parker raced into the restaurant and to his mother's side. "Dad can get tickets to the baseball game next Saturday! Can I go? Please, can I go?"

Rebecca's head began to shake as she started to respond, then she paused and looked at Brennan. "Of course," she said finally. "Who am I to stand in the way of a father and his son?"

The two women exchanged faint smiles as Parker and Booth slapped hands and whooped happily.

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><p><em>This is for all the times I've wanted to verbally bitch-slap Rebecca. I've got to say...it felt pretty good. :-)<em>

_Thanks for reading!  
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	2. The Question

_**AN: Written in response to the newest fanfiction challenge at Bonesology. We were given the first sentence and asked to build a story around it. This is mine. **_

_**I don't own these characters, etc. etc. etc.**_

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Catching the smile thrown her way as she entered Angela smoothed her skirt, took a deep breath and walked to her friend's table.

"Oh my God, look at you!" Roxie exclaimed, pushing her chair back as she stood up, arms outstretched. "You are so beautiful!" The two women wrapped each other in an embrace that lasted long moments before she stepped back. "Motherhood obviously agrees with you!"

Angela smiled broadly. "You caught me on a good day - I actually got more than three hours sleep last night!" she joked. "But look at you," she insisted in turn, grasping Roxie's hands and spreading her arms wide as she inspected her former lover. "Wow, Roxie. You look amazing. And I love that you went back to your dark hair. It really suits you!"

Roxie patted the sleek, chocolate brown bob self-consciously. "Well, you know, after all the processing and double processing and bleaching . . ." She sighed heavily. "This is so much easier now." She gestured to the table behind them and they sat down across from each other. A few moments of mutual silence followed as the waitress stopped by for their order and quickly returned with drinks.

Angela sipped, studying her friend. "It's more than the new hairstyle, though," she said finally. "You look . . . you look happy, Roxie."

A blush warmed the other woman's cheeks but her eyes stayed on Angela. "I am, Angie. I am . . ." her shoulders lifted and she smiled impishly. ". . . happy."

Angela's wide smile grew wider. "You're in love," she marveled, eyes wide. "I know that look." She reached across the table to squeeze Roxie's hands. "Tell me everything! Who is she? What is she like?"

Roxie's head dipped coyly. "Her name is Gabby, and she's a stockbroker I met in New York. We've been together for about a year."

"A stockbroker?" Angela laughed.

"I know, I know," the other woman chuckled. "Tortured artist meets buttoned down Wall Street. But it works." She shrugged again. "I don't know why or how, but it works. She's not you," Roxie said, with a bittersweet smile at her first love. "But, you know, who is? She's good for me. We're good together. She keeps me grounded. And she makes great waffles," she added, tinkling laughter spilling from her.

"Well, I am thrilled for you, Roxie," Angela said sincerely. "Honestly. This is such great news!" Joy for her old flame shone from her eyes. "I want you to be happy."

"Thanks, Ang." The two shared a smile filled with memories before Roxie squeezed Angela's hands in return. "Actually, that's sort of why I'm here." She paused dramatically. "Gabby and I are getting married and I wanted to ask if you would stand up with me."

There was a beat of shocked silence before Angela's squeal of excitement had every head in the diner turning toward them. "You're getting married!" The loud scrape of her chair being pushed back was drowned by another excited cry as she rounded the table and pulled Roxie into a tight hug. "Yes! Yes! I'd love to stand with you! Roxie! Oh, my God! Yes, of course! This is so fabulous!"

When the two women separated again, tears shimmered in brown and blue eyes alike. "Thank you, Angie," Roxie said, speaking over the catch in her voice. "There's no one I'd rather have standing beside me."

Angela pulled her close again. "I would have run you over with one of Hodgins' cars if you'd asked anyone else," she threatened with a smile. "Oh, Rox," she said, "This is just . . . wow."

"We're planning a small, very simple ceremony in New York" Roxie explained as they sat back down. "The details aren't finalized yet but I'll let you know as they come together. Just friends and Gabby's family."

"And my dad," Angela inserted. "You know he loves you and he'll expect an invitation."

"And Billy," Roxie agreed, laughing. "Okay, now that I've taken care of business, I have to see more pictures of that beautiful baby boy of yours. When are you going to let me paint him?"

Angela smiled broadly and brought out her cell phone. "Oh, I've got pictures, babe. I've definitely got pictures!"

The two women huddled over the cell phone as Angela scrolled through shots of a baby boy and his smiling parents, Roxie's exclamations mingling with Angela's light-hearted commentary on each one.


	3. The Assignment

"Hey, there she is!" Booth's loud, happy voice preceded him as he and Parker walked into the diner. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead before sliding into one of the seats on the other side of the table, leaving the one directly opposite her for Parker. "Sorry we're late, traffic over the bridge was backed up." He reached across the table to give her hand a squeeze. "Thanks for doing this, Bones, especially last minute."

"I'm happy to help," she said truthfully. Their conversation dropped off when the waitress arrived.

"Yea, thanks, Tempe," Parker grinned at her when the waitress had departed. He pulled a notebook and pencil out of his backpack. "I always use Mom or Dad for these assignments but Ms. Crocker said we couldn't use our parents this time. She said we had to find someone else we admired."

"I am very worthy of being admired," Brennan smiled back at the young boy, "You've made a good choice."

"Yea," Parker responded. "Plus I saw Ms. Crocker reading one of your books so this might be an easy A!" Booth rolled his eyes and nudged his son but both he and Brennan chuckled involuntarily.

Parker pulled out a sheet of paper and held it up. "Okay, what I have to do is ask you these questions and write down your answers," he explained seriously, "and then I have to turn in the answers and do a separate report. Is that okay?"

Brennan nodded back just as seriously. "I believe I understand," she told him, firming her lips when they began to twitch at the boy's assumed scholarly air. "I will endeavor to give you concise but thorough responses."

Parker sent a questioning glance to his father. "Short and sweet," Booth explained, as the waitress returned with his coffee and Parker's milkshake.

Nodding, Parker picked up his pencil. "What is your name?" He looked up, waiting.

"Parker, you know her name."

"Dad," Parker said, giving him the look irritated children reserved for their parents. "It's on the list!"

"Parker is merely following his teacher's directions, Booth," Brennan inserted primly while below the table, her toe tapped his knee. She looked at Parker. "Dr. Temperance Brennan. Would you like me to spell Temperance?"

He shook his head, writing. "How old are you?"

"35."

"What do you do for a living?"

She considered the question. "Do you want to know everything I do for which I receive payment?" she asked. "I'm quite wealthy and no longer have to work 'for a living,' in the usual way that phrase is used."

Parker chewed the eraser on his pencil then nodded. "Yea. Maybe if I list everything I'll get extra credit."

"All right," Brennan agreed. "I am a forensic anthropologist employed by The Jeffersonian Institute. I also," she smiled at Booth, "function as a consultant in forensic anthropology with the FBI, when necessary, for which the FBI reimburses The Jeffersonian for my time and expertise on a per-case basis. I am also on the faculty of the anthropology department at George Washington University and teach a few select seminars and limited enrollment lectures each year."

Parker looked up from his writing. "That's everything?"

"No," she smiled. "I am certified by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology and in that role I am often called upon to consult with local law enforcement jurisdictions when otherwise unidentifiable human remains are discovered. As a member of the ABFA, I also occasionally conduct seminars and lectures for members of various legal entities across the country."

Parker wrote furiously for a few minutes before looking up curiously.

"I am a contributing author for various scientific journals and forensic publications. And, I consult with foreign governments to evaluate archeology finds when human remains are discovered."

Parker finished a sentence and glanced up. "Is that it?"

She shook her head. "No. I am a best-selling author and I have made a significant amount of money from producers who are interested in turning my books into movies. In addition, I have been asked to take on the role of consultant for a new TV series which is loosely based on the heroine of my novels."

Parker had stopped writing. He and his father looked at her wearing the same open-mouthed expressions of amazement.

"You do all of that?" Parker asked, his eyes wide.

"Not on a daily basis," Brennan admitted. "But yes, that is a basic description of what I do for a living. If I actually had to work for a living."

"Wow." The boy lowered his head and began writing again. "Do you have a college degree?"

"I have several degrees," she answered, listing them slowly and adding an explanation for the abbreviations.

"Did you always want to be an anthropologist?"

"No," she said, sipping her tea. "When I was in middle school, I wanted to be a ballerina."

"Oh." Parker looked up, surprised. "What made you change your mind?"

"Puberty," she explained simply. "I developed breasts."

"Bones!" Booth reached over hastily to cover Parker's ears.

"What?" Her expression betrayed her confusion.

"Don't talk about your . . . . your . . ." Booth eyed her cleavage obviously, "in front of Parker."

"Why?" she asked, frowning. "I'm sure Parker knows I have breasts. Especially now," she added, looking down at her neckline, "when they are so engorged due to my pregnancy. They're very obvious. My bra size has increased by two cup measurements."

"Bones!"

Parker stared down at his paper and tried not to laugh out loud.

"Booth, Parker is 11 years old," Brennan said, her tone patient. "And he has a computer in his room. He's probably already looked at pornography . . ."

"That's it!" Booth grabbed the sheet of paper off the table and stood up. "Come on, Parker."

Parker stared at his father, eyes wide. "But Dad!" he argued. "This assignment is due tomorrow! I promise I won't write anything about Tempe's breasts!"

Booth spluttered, pointing a finger at Brennan. "See what you did?"

"You're being silly," Brennan responded. "Parker already knew I have breasts."

"Yea, Dad, I know . . ."

"No! We'll call your grandfather," Booth said, pulling Parker to the door. "You can interview him." He glared at Brennan as he passed. "We'll talk about this at home. Tonight."

"Fine," she shrugged, rolling her eyes at him.

"Dad, I could have gotten an A!" Parker complained as he followed Booth out the door.

"Your grandfather can get you an A."

"But Dad . . . "

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><p><em>They'll talk about this at home. Because they live together. Booth and Brennan. They live together. Excuse me while I fangirl for a minute . . . <em>

_Thanks for reading!_


	4. The Omelette in the Lunch

"Oh, darn. I need to call Hodgins and I think I left my phone at the lab. Can I borrow yours, Brennan?" Angela made a show of fishing through her bag as the waitress set their orders in front of the three women.

"No." Picking up her knife, Brennan cut her sandwich in half.

Cam looked askance at the woman sitting next to her. "That was rather abrupt, even for you, Dr. Brennan," she said, her tone amused. "You can use mine, Angela."

Brennan touched Cam's wrist when she reached for her purse. "Angela doesn't really need to call Hodgins. She just wants my phone."

Across from them, Angela rolled her eyes.

"Why does she want your phone?" Cam looked curiously at each of them.

"Because I have a nude photo of Booth on it. This is simply the latest ruse in her attempts to see it."

Cam blinked. "You have a naked photo of Booth? On your phone?"

Brennan nodded, nibbling delicately at her veggie sandwich.

"Booth allowed you to take a nude photo of him?" Cam was clearly surprised.

"_Allow_ isn't the proper word, " she shook her head. "I didn't exactly ask for permission." She frowned at her lunch.

"He was making her breakfast," Angela inserted, spreading a napkin across her lap.

Cam's head began to swim. "Booth was cooking . . . naked."

Brennan removed the top slice of bread and examined the ingredients of her sandwich. "Yes. But not for me. We had just had intercourse and he said he was hungry," she said casually, removing a slice of onion. Angela and Cam shared an open-mouthed look. "I explained to him that not only was it unsanitary but that he was also taking quite a risk by leaving his genitals exposed to danger while he stood so close to a hot cooking surface, but he refused to listen."

Cam covered her mouth with one hand and glanced away from Angela while she attempted to contain her mirth. "And you just snapped a picture when he wasn't looking?"

Brennan nodded again as she cut her sandwich in quarters. "I wanted to prove my point about his proximity to the stove, but Booth seemed much more concerned that I had a naked photo of him." She shrugged her shoulders.

"And now she won't let me see it!" Angela complained.

"Well," Cam replied, "I think Booth would probably want to decide who sees that picture."

Angela huffed. "Well, it's not fair," she said, throwing down her fork.

"In what way?" Brennan asked, looking at Angela curiously.

"I'm the only woman in the lab who hasn't seen Booth naked!" Angela answered. "I think it's my turn."

Sitting beside Brennan, Cam choked on the bite she'd just taken from her salad.

"That's not true. There are several female employees in the lab who haven't seen Booth nude. Including Miss Wick, and if we use your fairness analogy, she has more leverage than you because both Booth and I have seen her naked."

Angela's chin dropped. "You saw Daisy naked?"

Cam shook her head. "What kind of lab am I running?"

"Oh, it wasn't at the lab," Brennan explained. "We accidentally interrupted a sexual encounter in Sweets' office."

"Thank God for small favors," Cam murmured.

"Well, anyway," Angela interrupted. "I wasn't talking about the interns. So, I should get to see that photo."

"If you're comparing the three of us," Brennan said, "then you're also the only person who hasn't had sex with Booth. Do you want to have intercourse with him, too?"

"Dr. Brennan!" Cam shocked gaze moved from the anthropologist to Angela, who seemed to be pondering the question seriously. "Angela!"

Angela shrugged. "Hey, I'm married, not dead," she laughed. "But, no, I'm very happy with Hodgins. At the moment," she added mischievously.

Cam took a deep sip from her glass of water and cleared her throat gently. "I would like to change the subject. I don't think this is an appropriate topic for discussion," she finished, and picked up her fork with determination.

"Are you uncomfortable because you had a sexual relationship with Booth and now I am involved with him and having his child?" Brennan asked, her expression curious as she questioned Cam.

"No," Cam began, "I . . . it's just . . ."

"Because I see no reason for either of us to be uncomfortable," Brennan continued. "Your relationship with Booth ended several years ago and has nothing to do with my relationship with him. Also, Booth is a very accomplished lover. I can't imagine that you have any regrets about having had sex with him," she laughed suggestively.

Across the table, Angela stared at Brennan disbelievingly. Beside her, Cam closed her eyes and shook her head.

"This is why I don't have lunch with you two more often," she said. "How about those . . . what sport is being played right now?"

"Football . . . I think," Angela answered before leaning toward Brennan. "Come on, sweetie. Just a peek." She smiled winningly. "You know I can be very discreet."

Cam determinedly ignored both of them.

"No."

"Brennan . . . "

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><p><em>I hope Booth wasn't frying bacon to go with his omelette - because, ouch! Personally, I think Brennan should let us see the picture, too. Just to make sure he wasn't in any real danger.<em>


	5. Family Connections

_AN: I'm cheating a bit because this conversation doesn't take place in the diner. But, I think it fits here anyway. Enjoy!  
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Max pushed open the door to the small pub and stood inside for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust to the dim light within. Glancing around, he noticed the older man sitting at the bar laughing with the pretty bartender and headed over.

"Hank Booth?" he asked, offering one hand in greeting.

"The same," Hank answered as he accepted the handshake.

"Max Keenan," Max introduced himself as he seated himself on the next stool and studied the lined face next to him for a few moments. "You have the look of a cop about you," he remarked as the bartender slid a beer in front of him.

"M.P." Hank responded, eying Max in turn with an inscrutable expression. "You have the look of someone who knows how to avoid cops."

Max's smile widened. "You could say that," he said. "It worked pretty good for me until my daughter met your grandson."

"Ah." Hank leaned back a little. "So you're the pretty bone lady's father. You weren't too clear on that when you said you wanted to talk to me about my grandson." His gaze sharpened. "You're the one who ran off and left her when she wasn't much more than a kid."

Max sipped his beer. "It's a long story."

"I got time." Hank gestured to the bartender to refill his cup. "I don't get away from the center all that often, so I might as well make the best of it. Besides," he glanced at the other man, "you drove all the way up here for something."

Max considered his beer for a moment before he turned to Hank and, in simple terms, shared his story.

The ex-M.P. was quiet, listening without comment. "You put yourself in a tough spot," he said, when Max fell silent.

Max nodded, without looking at Hank.

"Was it worth it?"

"My kids are alive," Max answered.

"What about the men who were chasing you?"

"They're dead."

Hank's eyes narrowed to slits as he examined Max's profile. "Huh," he grunted. And he didn't ask.

"That's why I'm here." Max leaned on his elbows and angled his chin as he looked at Hank. "Your grandson . . . Booth, he's good for Tempe."

"I think that works both ways," Hank said thoughtfully. "She's good for him. I told 'im, 'Shrimp,' I said, 'you need to hang on to this one.'" He looked steadily at Max. "Told him that before I knew about the baby, too."

Max shook his head. "My Tempe is having a baby. Sometimes, I still can't believe it." He looked at Hank, his eyes full of unspoken regret. "I'm happy for her, don't get me wrong. I . . . Ruth and I, we . . . Tempe had a hard time when we left." He paused, eyes closed for a moment. "I didn't know how hard, not until later. And it wasn't until I came back, until she let me back into her life that I really understood what we'd done to her. She wouldn't let herself believe in something like family anymore. She wouldn't let anyone close to her anymore." One brow arched as he looked at Hank. "Except Booth." He nodded when the bartender approached again.

"I saw something when the two of them were together and I wanted that for her," Max said, while Hank watched and listened in silence. "I pushed, just a little. Of course," Max shrugged, "you can't really push Tempe. But I tried. Hell," he laughed self-deprecatingly, "I let him arrest me."

"You _let _Shrimp arrest you?" Hank scoffed, eyeing Max in disbelief.

"Well, I didn't make it easy for him," Max amended, flexing his fist automatically. "He packs a hard right hook, your boy."

"I taught him that," Hank said smugly.

"And you did a damn good job," Max tipped his glass toward the other man.

Hank sipped his coffee. "So what do you want from me?"

Max looked into space for a long moment and considered the question. "I want to know I wasn't wrong," he said finally, facing Hank. "I want to know I wasn't wrong about the kind of man he is, about him being good for Tempe."

"You could ask him," Hank said, leaning back and lacing his fingers over his stomach.

Max grinned. "Booth and I have an understanding - I don't give him a reason to shoot me and he doesn't shoot me."

"Well, then, you could ask her," Hank added, his gaze steady on Max.

"I could," Max nodded. "I'm her father, and I could ask." The muscles in his throat worked as he fought to keep his voice steady. "But I left her alone." He avoided Hank's eyes. "Her mother and I . . . Ruth and I . . ." He shook his head. "I'd do it again, if I had to," he said, the knuckles on his fingers showing white as he clenched his hands around his glass. "She had it rough but she was alive. We left her alone, though, and I'm still making up for that. She's not going to let me push the 'father' button now." He cleared his throat before looking at Hank again. "So I'm asking you. I'm here so you can tell me what kind of man you raised, if he's as good as I think he is. If he's good enough for my little girl."

"Never had any girls," Hank said, his gaze shifting to his hands. "Probably a good thing since I lost Margaret so early. But if I had," he continued, looking back at Max, "I'd want her to find someone like Seeley. He's a good man." He shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you what he's done or what he's been through; that's his story to tell and you'll have to ask him if you want to hear it. But I do know your girl is safe with him. He's strong and he's tough but his heart is the biggest thing about him. I've seen them together," Hank smiled, "and I'd say your gal's got herself a big chunk of it, too. You don't have to worry about my boy."

Max stared back at him for a long moment, reading the truth in the sincerity of the age-faded eyes that held his own steadily. Then he nodded and with a smile, raised his glass.

"To grandchildren," he said.

Hank clinked his drink against the other glass. "To grandchildren," he agreed, his eyes twinkling.


	6. The Racket in the  Bracket

_SPOILER ALERT: Baby Girl Booth's name is used in this story._  
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"Sorry I'm late." Booth let his hand slide across the back of her neck as she slid over in the booth to make room for him. "Hacker-" His voice broke off abruptly as Brennan quickly stuffed a sheet of paper in her bag. "What's that?"

"Nothing." She made a show of stirring her tea, blowing it cool while staring meaningfully at Angela across the rim of the cup. "What were you saying about Andrew?"

"The usual. That wasn't nothing," he added, nodding toward the purse on top of the table, "especially if you have to hide it."

"Why can't he-" Angela began.

Brennan interrupted her, frowning as she held her partner's gaze. "I am prevaricating for your benefit, Booth."

He murmured his order to the waitress who appeared at his elbow before scowling at Brennan. "My benefit? What does that mean?"

Hodgins looked at Angela and then at Brennan. "I know it's technically illegal but it's not like Booth is going to arrest us, Dr. B. I don't even think he has jurisdiction."

Startled, Booth's eyes narrowed on Brennan. "Arrest you? For what?"

She stared daggers at Hodgins and sighed heavily. "If you must know," she responded grumpily, "it is my entry for this month's basketball competition. I have to return it to Leo by 3:00 pm today."

A wide grin spread across his face. "March Madness? You're doing a bracket for March Madness?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I participate in the contest every year. I came very close to winning last year."

"Guessing one team of the Final Four is not 'coming close,'" Hodgins laughed.

"Well, why didn't you just say so?" Booth laughed and stretched a hand toward her bag. "Let me see who you're picking, maybe I can help."

"Booth!" Her eyes widened in horror as she smacked his hand. "You're a degenerate gambler! I can't allow you to help me with this!"

"Brennan!" "Well that's a little harsh!" Angela and Hodgins spoke together.

His arm dropped to the table, knocking silverware together with a clank. "Do you have to use the word 'degenerate,' Bones?" he complained. "I haven't placed a bet in over eight years. I don't think one little bracket is going to send me down the road to hell."

"I can't take that chance, Booth," she insisted righteously. "This could be the numbered tile that starts the chain reaction."

He blinked. "Domino. It could be the first domino to fall."

"Precisely!" She leaned back as the waitress returned to set their orders in front of each of them. "I'm glad you agree with me."

Hodgins laughed. "It's just the lab's bracket, Dr. Brennan. We're not exactly running numbers."

"That's how it starts," she admonished, waving her fork. "And then one day, we'll have to sell our home to pay off Booth's gambling debts." She pouted unhappily. "We just planted that tree, Booth. I do not want to be forced into selling our daughter's cherry tree."

Angela and Hodgins met each others eyes, laughing silently as Booth protested. "So if I look at your bracket we'll end up having to sell Chrissy's tree?"

She shrugged. "I don't want to take the chance."

"Wow," he said, shaking his head. "Okay, fine. I'll stay out of your little squinty bracket. The winner gets, what? Hundred bucks?"

Hodgins spoke around the large bite he'd just taken. "1,800. Last year we had a three-way tie and they split $1,800." Booth's chin dropped. Hodgins swallowed and continued. "It's a $50 buy-in, man. Sure you don't want to-"

"Hodgins!" Brennan exclaimed. "You can't ask him that! He has a gambling problem!"

"Thank you for leaving out the 'degenerate' part this time," Booth muttered.

"You're welcome," she responded. "In any event, I don't require your assistance. I've done my research," she continued. "I've made my selections based on statistical supremacy in several different categories. I'm confident in my choices."

"You can't just rely on statistics, Bones," Booth said, waving one half of his sandwich in the air. "You've got to look at which team is riding a streak, which player is likely to get hot, stuff like that!"

"Or," Hodgins smiled, "you can do what Angela does - pick the winners based on the numerical value of the color of their uniforms."

"Don't laugh," Angela said pointedly. "Naomi in Paleontology was one of the winners last year and she made her picks because of the mascots."

Hodgins met Booth's disbelieving eyes and shrugged. "What can you do?" the two men communicated silently.

"So who are you putting in your Final Four, Bones?" Booth asked before biting into his sandwich.

She shook her head as she chewed and swallowed. "I can't discuss that with you, Booth."

"Because we'll end up having to sell the house to pay off the loan sharks."

"And Christine's tree."

"It's not really a tree right now," he pointed out. "It's more of a stick with leaves tied to other sticks so it will stand up straight."

"Given time, it will grow to become Christine's tree."

"Unless the loan sharks dig it up."

"That would be distressing."

"Well, maybe they'll just break my kneecaps instead."

"That would obviously be unfortunate."

"Losing a tree is distressing but me losing my kneecaps is just unfortunate?"

"Are you angry at Christine's tree?"

"What?"

Across from them, Angela and Hodgins erupted in peals of laughter.

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><p><em>Brennan is a genius so I'm sure she picked Kentucky to win it all. Go Big Blue! <em>


	7. The Balance in the Bet

_SPOILER: Baby Girl Booth's name is used_.

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Brennan cleared away dishes from the table while Booth searched for a clean spot on Christine's bib and wiped away the bits of peas and mashed peaches she'd somehow managed to smear from chin to forehead. And into her hair, he noticed, as he dabbed at the orange goo clumped into the wispy cocoa-colored curls. "Somebody needs a bath," he teased his daughter playfully, leaning in close to rub her tiny nose with his and earning the reward of two dimpled little hands transferring more of her dinner onto his cheeks as she patted his face happily. "Okay, two somebodies," he chuckled, grabbing for her hands to wipe them clean. She managed to pull one free and let out an ear-piercing shriek as she grabbed for the mostly empty bowl in front of her and sent it falling over the tray of her high chair to the floor.

"It's unfortunate that sound is the only one she's learned to create consistently," Brennan laughed, bending down to clean up the mess the baby had just made. Seeing her mother's dark head within reach, Christine reached out with one still sticky hand, grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled it toward her mouth. "Ouch! Owww!" Brennan stood involuntarily as the baby tugged her up.

"No, no, no, little Chrissy girl," Booth laughed as he tried to open Christine's fist and free Brennan. "We don't eat Mommy's hair." He gently pried her fingers apart and plucked away the few strands that stuck to the dried food, laughing louder at Brennan's face when she reached up to assess the damage to her scalp and pulled away a gob of their daughter's dinner. "Now three somebodies need baths!" He pulled the baby free of her high chair and settled her against his chest. "Want me to run a bath in the big tub?" he asked, bouncing Christine as Brennan wiped down the chair. "She likes playing in the water with us."

Brennan glance spoke volumes. "_You_ like those family baths," she retorted with a shake of her head.

"Well, it conserves water." He smiled back even as the heat of his gaze skimmed her body. "Among other benefits."

She laughed and stepped closer. In one smooth movement, she cupped the baby's head, dropped a kiss on her cheek then pressed another one against his lips. "Go ahead. I'll join you when I'm finished in here."

Fifteen minutes later she opened the door to the steamy bathroom, shedding clothes as she closed it behind her. She stepped carefully around the water already splashed out onto the tile floor and climbed into the tub opposite from where Booth sat with the slippery baby girl held securely in his hands as she bounced on wobbly legs, chubby hands smacking at the waves she created, her high-pitched squeal echoing around the room. Over the next few minutes her parents passed her back and forth, lathering tiny toes and rinsing bubbles from dainty curls while Booth teased her in baby nonsense and Brennan spoke to her very precisely. Christine responded by babbling nonsensically, her funny giggle mixing with the screech she'd perfected while she managed to splash and kick even more water from the tub to the floor. She interrupted more than one kiss they tried to sneak in above her head with well-timed arrows of water and once by smacking both of them with soapy hands. Booth wiped his cheek and lifted her high above the water, his laughter turning into a yelp when more than just bath water coursed down her leg.

"Oh! Peeing in the tub - bath time's over!" He stood up and stepped out onto the rug, holding her over the water so Brennan could rinse her off again. While she belted herself into a thick robe, Booth wrapped Christine in a fluffy towel then passed her over.

"I'll get her ready for bed and give her her last feeding for the night," she said, watching with obvious interest as Booth knotted a towel around his waist. He caught her glance and threaded his fingers through her wet hair, holding her in place for a kiss that lasted until Christine's fingers poked against their closed eyes. They broke apart with the same husky laughter.

"I'll clean up in here," he said. "And meet you in bed."

Her daughter powdered, diapered, dressed, fed and fast asleep in her crib, Brennan returned to their bedroom. Hearing Booth still working in the bathroom, she retrieved a couple of sheets from her bag, draped the robe she wore over a chair then slid beneath the covers to wait for him. When he came out a few minutes later, she was comparing the two pages.

"What's that?" he asked, crawling into bed beside her.

She held the pages to her chest and frowned. "My bracket and a copy of the one belonging to Dr. Hodgins," she admitted.

He leaned on one elbow and grinned. "How are you doing?"

She rolled her eyes. "We have the highest scores. Next weekend will determine the winner."

"Oh, really!" His smile grew wider. "Who do you have winning?" She hesitated for a moment. "Come on, Bones. I'm not going to run off to Vegas if you just show me your bracket."

She considered for a moment longer then nodded and laid the brackets on the bed between them. "Dr. Hodgins is ahead of me in points and we both have the same teams chosen from this side of the bracket as two of the last four teams. But," she continued, "we didn't choose the same team to play in the final game." One slim finger traced a line beneath the teams in the center of the sheet. "Dr. Hodgins is so far ahead of me in points that even if the team I choose goes to the final game, he will still win the competition if that team loses." She furrowed her brow and glanced at Booth. "Do you understand that?"

He laughed. "Yea, I got it." He looked at her bracket and shrugged. "You're going to lose."

"What?" Brennan looked from her bracket to him. "If this team . . ."

Booth was already shaking his head. "Nope. None of these teams," his finger tapped against three of them, "can beat them." He tapped twice against the fourth. "And you didn't even pick them to play in the championship."

"I did my research, Booth," she insisted. "There was an entire category about teams who start freshmen and-" He was already shaking his head. "What?"

"They've already played and beaten two of the other teams during the regular season," he pointed out. "The only way they don't win is if they get lost on the way to New Orleans." He lay back against his pillow, his hands folded beneath his head. "Sorry, Bones. You're going to lose."

She huffed and shuffled the papers together, her irritation apparent. "The games have yet to be played. We'll see."

He grinned at her. "Wanna bet?"

Her jaw dropped in shock. "I knew I should not have allowed you to look at these brackets!"

"No," he shook his head and rolled to his side. "I don't mean money. We could put something more . . . personal . . . on the line." His eyes ranged over suggestively.

She looked at him in confusion. "I don't know what that . . . Oh." Her eyes widened. "Oh!" The beginning of a smile curved her lips. "Really?"

"Sure." He traced her arm with one finger, watching goosebumps rise under her skin.

She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. "What . . . what would we wager?"

His eyes went hot. "Anything you want."

She blinked. "Anything?"

He smiled.

"All right," she agreed, nodding breathlessly. She tossed the brackets to the floor and fumbled in the drawer of her bedside table for a notepad and two pens. "We'll make it official," she said, pulling a few sheets from the pad and tossing them over to him.

He sat up and took the pen she held out. "Official or not," he added, "this is just between you and me. These bets stay here." He pointed his pen at her. "And that means you don't tell Angela."

"Of course not," Brennan shook her head. "I won't mention it." She nibbled on the end of her pen. "Do you know what-"

Booth scrawled one word on his paper. "Oh, yea." He looked at her expectantly.

She paused only a few seconds before her pen flew across the page. With a quick flick of her wrist, she pulled the top sheet from the pad.

"Ready?" They exchanged their bets.

Booth looked from the page he held to the woman sitting beside him. "Really?" he asked, his grin widening when her cheeks turned a rosy shade of pink.

She cleared her throat. "That's my wager," she answered primly. She held up the sheet he'd given her. "I thought this was just . . ."

"That's what I want," he interrupted, enjoying the way her eyes sparkled as she looked at him.

"Fine," she shrugged. "I'm going to win anyway."

He grabbed her pen and tossed it, along with the other pen and the sheets of paper, to the floor and pulled her down beside him, his hands roving her body at will.

"We're both going to win, baby."

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><p><em>So, let's make this fun. I have both scenarios written. If Kentucky wins, Brennan loses. If Louisville, Kansas or Ohio State wins (not going to happen!), Booth loses.<em>

_Who are you cheering for? Or I guess I should ask, whose bet do you want to see? :-D  
><em>


	8. The Winning in the Wager

The doorbell was barely audible over the noise from the group gathered in the house and when the chimes rang a second time, only Hodgins heard the faint sound. Looking around the crowded room and not seeing either of his hosts moving toward the door, he headed in that direction himself. Standing just outside, a young man struggled to hold steady the stack of flat pizza boxes in his arms.

"Did we order pizza?" Hodgins yelled back over his shoulder. The one person who heard him was Wendell Bray and although he'd only caught the word _pizza_, that was enough to have him coming over to investigate.

"I don't know." He leaned over and breathed deeply. "Smells good, though.'

The young driver shifted the boxes restlessly. "Is your name Booth? That's who ordered 'em."

Hodgins shrugged as Wendell reached out to relieve the youth of his burden. "That's us. How much do we owe you?"

The driver shook his head. "It was paid online. Not the tip, though," he added quickly.

Wendell shook his head and laughed at Hodgins. "Don't look at me, man. You're the one with the money," he said before he carried the pizzas away. With a good-natured grimace, Hodgins reached for his wallet.

Wendell approached a dining room table already heavily laden with platters and bowls of food. Before he could decide what could be moved to allow enough room for the boxes, Booth was at his elbow.

"Oh, hey, I didn't hear the doorbell," he said, reaching out and taking half of the boxes from the intern.

"Hodgins answered the door," Wendell replied. "He-"

"We have more food?" Brennan was there, hands on hips.

"It's pizza," Booth stated obviously. "Can't watch the game without pizza. We'll leave some of these out and put the rest in the oven to stay warm," he said, shifting dishes and bowls.

"You said that about the chicken wings, too," Brennan spoke as she assisted in the rearranging. "Even with the number of guests we have, I don't believe we'll be able to consume this much food."

Booth shrugged. "Then we'll just send it home with everyone. Or I'll take it all in tomorrow and put in the FBI breakroom. With that bunch of scavengers everything will be gone by lunchtime."

"Poor intern here!" Wendell piped up. "I'll take any leftover pizza."

"See, Bones?" Booth grinned. "We're just taking care of your starving interns."

"Mr. Brey is obviously not starving," she disagreed. "The Jeffersonian-"

"Somebody owes me twenty bucks." Hodgins walked up, opened a pizza box and pulled out a slice. "I didn't have anything smaller to tip the guy."

"I can reimburse you from the large amount of cash I'll have when the game ends tonight," Brennan smirked, continuing the back and forth argument she and Hodgins had been trading for the last hour. The three men laughed loudly, speaking over each in a rush to explain why she was wrong. She confidently ignored them all until Hodgins and Wendell wandered away, leaving her alone with Booth. Checking the ice bucket and finding it almost empty, she carried it into the kitchen to be refilled; Booth followed her and slid the extra pizzas into the oven.

His task done he stepped behind her and trapped her between his outstretched arms and the counter, leaning over to nuzzle the side of her neck. "You're going to lose," he murmured, and she could feel his smile against her skin. "I hope you're ready to pay up."

She turned within the space he'd created, her expression sultry as she captured his eyes. "I am prepared to meet the terms of our wager," she answered, her voice low. She slid her arms around his waist and pulled him closer. "Can you say the same about your bet?"

The broad grin she loved so much spread across his face. "Hey, if I'd known you-"

"What is this about a bet?" Angela spoke from the doorway, laughing a bit when they sprang apart abruptly. "I thought Booth wasn't allowed to even look at the brackets."

Brennan busied herself with the ice bucket again, rattling the lid with a clatter while Booth cleared his throat noisily. "It's personal, Angela. Never mind."

"Ohhhhh." Eyebrows raised, she stepped deeper into the kitchen and leaned one hip against the small table just inside. "It's one of _thoooose _bets . . . So, what's on the line?" She beamed at them, her eyes twinkling. "Lap dance? Strip tease? Breakfast in bed naked? Oral-"

"Hey!" Booth interrupted quickly.

Her cheeks pink, Brennan refused to meet her friend's gaze. "Angela! As Booth said, it's personal," she said primly.

"Well, Hodgins and I-"

"Stop!" Booth covered his ears. "I don't want to know what you and Hodgins . . . Never mind. Just . . no."

"Oh, come on, guys," she wheedled as they passed her, following Brennan as she returned the ice bucket to the table. "Brennan, you're never shy about this stuff. Just give me a hint."

"A hint of what?" Sweets asked, approaching the table with an empty plate.

"Booth and Brennan have a sex bet on the game," Angela announced loudly enough to have almost every head turning in their direction.

"See, baby?" Clark turned sharply to Nora. "This is exactly why I didn't want to come!"

She swatted his arm. "Oh, hush. Wagering sexual favors on a sporting event is perfectly . . ."

"Lance and I have sex bets all the time," Daisy piped up, pressing in close beside Sweets with a simpering smile. "Sometimes we-"

"Finish that sentence and I will shoot you," Booth warned.

"Who's getting shot?" Max asked as he approached the table, his granddaughter in his arms.

"Wonderful." Booth hung his head in defeat, his eyes squeezed shut.

Hodgins poked a celery stick into a bowl of hummus. "No one. Booth and Dr. B have a side bet on the game. A personal bet," he added with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Everyone within 10 feet heard Booth grinding his teeth together. "Hodgins," he bit out, "so help me . . ."

"Oh," Max chuckled. "Ruth and I used to-"

"Dad!" Brennan shook her head frantically. "I don't think this is the best time . . "

Sweets nodded wisely. "It's normal for adult children to feel a bit uncomfortable when the topic of their parents' sex lives is raised. It can be helpful to-"

"Swear to God, Sweets," Booth glared, "I will take you out."

"What's got Shrimp foaming at the mouth?" Hank managed to insert himself into the crowd and reached for Christine. "Come 'ere, butterbean. Grandpa Max is being greedy with you."

"Why do all of your grandfather's nicknames involve food?" Brennan asked Booth quietly as she watched the two elderly gentlemen pass the baby girl between them as carefully as if she were made of spun sugar.

Booth shrugged, still frazzled. "I don't know, he just-"

Angela nudged Hank. "They have a little side bet going on, if you know what I mean."

"Pops, I'm sorry . . ."

"Ah," Hank nodded, his eyes glinting mischievously. "Your grandmother sometimes liked to put a little something-something on the Steelers. Sometimes she'd-"

"Pops!"

"Booth can be a bit prudish when the topic of sex comes up," Sweets explained.

"I'm not a prude!" he yelled. "I'm private! Some things are just private!"

"He's really not a prude," Brennan agreed. "Our sex life is quite adventurous-"

"Bones!"

"What?" she frowned. "I was only trying to help."

"Well, you're not, okay?"

"Um, hey," Fisher called from the living room, standing up with Michael perched on his shoulders tugging happily at the intern's messy hair. "The game is starting, if anyone cares. And I think Mickey V is eating my hair."

"Gross!" Angela exclaimed, rushing toward him. "Don't let him eat your hair, Fisher!"

"And don't call him Mickey V," Hodgins groused as he, too, headed over. "His name is Michael."

Hank started to follow them but stopped abruptly, turning back to Booth with his nose crunched. He held the baby out toward her father. "Someone needs a new diaper, shrimp."

Brennan reached out for her but Booth stopped her with a hand on her arm. "I'll take care of it," he mumbled, nestling the little girl against his chest. "Maybe I'll change my mind about shooting everyone," he added as he stalked off.

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For the next three hours the group watched the game being played and passed the two babies around until both of them finally nodded off to sleep. Despite a strong run that closed the gap, with a minute left it was obvious who the winner would be. Brennan gave in with good grace and Hodgins crowed about his victory with considerably less but there was laughter and more than a little friendly teasing and dire promises for next year and through it all, Brennan felt Booth's smokey gaze rest on her more than once. When she caught his eye, he smiled and winked and watched as pink bloomed in her cheeks. Finally, the guests took their leave, loaded down with as much food as they could be convinced to take with them.

Booth stood over the chair in which his grandfather sat snoring. "I'll get Pops to the guest room and start cleaning up," he offered.

Brennan nodded. "I'll make sure Christine is still settled. You don't have to put away anything other than the perishables," she mentioned. "I provided notice to the cleaning service that there would be party cleanup tomorrow."

He nodded, nudging Hank awake as she headed upstairs to their daughter.

A short while later she stood in the doorway of the kitchen unnoticed and watched him close the refrigerator on the last food container. She cleared her throat softly.

He looked over his shoulder . . . and froze.

Breath trapped somewhere in his chest, his eyes traveled slowly up her body. Simple black pumps. Bare legs. A grey skirt that fit somewhat more snugly than it had a year ago and into which a white silk blouse was tucked, belted tightly at the waist and buttoned to the neck. She'd even, he realized as his mouth went dry, tied a silly little bow beneath the collar. Perched on the end of her nose was the pair of reading glasses only she knew he kept in his bedside table.

Ridiculously pleased at his dumbfounded expression she stepped forward with an exaggerated sway of her hips as she saw the heat in his eyes flare. Smoothly, she lifted one hand and removed the pencil that held the knot of hair in place at the nape of her neck. Somewhat awkwardly but all the more adorable to him because of it, she shook her head until the dark strands floated into a tangle of tousled curls around her face.

Even as his body hardened and his blood began to bubble, he couldn't stop the broad grin that split his face.

"Mr. Booth," she whispered, her husky voice rippling over his skin, "do you know what the penalty is for an overdue book?"

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* * *

><p><em>Lucky Brennan . . . even when she loses, she wins. :-D<em>


	9. Fair is Fair

The sound of her phone ringing was the last thing she wanted to hear at that particular moment and her reaction when she grabbed for it made that fact evident.

"What?" she spat out.

"Whoa." On the other end, Booth sat up with a sharp movement. "Whatever I did, I'm sorry," he laughed.

"Booth." She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her free hand. "No, it is I who should apologize to you. This has not been the most productive of days and I find I am very frustrated."

"Anything I can do to help?" he offered, rocking back a bit in the new chair she'd bought him for Christmas.

"Not unless you can repair one of the few intact urns found in a burial chamber in the Liaoning Province in Northern China," she snapped. "Only five of them were recovered whole and thanks to a very poor job of packaging, one of them was delivered to me this morning shattered into small pieces."

"Ouch," he commiserated. "Maybe-"

"And," she continued, warming up to her theme, "even though I left Dr. Saroyan detailed instructions for tasks which _my_ interns could complete while I was on maternity leave, I discovered today that the box of bone fragments recovered from the mass grave in the Philippines, which dates back to the 1940s and which may contain the remains of U.S. servicemen, remains unsorted." She huffed angrily. "They are _my_ interns, Booth. I expected Dr. Saroyan to see that they completed the work I assigned to them. What else have they not done?"

Booth shifted restlessly in his seat. Even after all this time he was wary of getting involved in any battle of territorial office rights between the two women. "Well, Bones, you know, Cam probably had-"

"And Ms. Wick!"

Booth bit his lip to rein in his laughter when she growled in frustration. "Well, she's enough all by herself to put anyone in a bad mood," he joked.

"It's not funny, Booth." Brennan glared at her door as if the young woman were standing right there. "She is very intelligent and obviously eager to be useful but it's that very eagerness that makes her sometimes difficult to be around. I don't understand how someone so brilliant can be so clueless when it comes to being aware of how others react to her."

Booth opened his mouth as several different responses leapt to mind before he thought better of giving voice to any of them and, wisely, closed his lips firmly. "Huh," he said noncommittally.

"Also, Angela won't stop asking for hints regarding the wager we had on the game last week," she said, her voice sharp. "I have clearly indicated the rising level of my annoyance to her but she refuses to stop."

"You have had a rough day."

Brennan slumped in her seat, sighing heavily. "I may simply be overtired. With Christine teething and having to be up so frequently to sooth her, it's possible I'm just reacting to a lack of sleep."

The weariness in her words softened him to mush. He glanced at his watch. "Why don't you go home now?" he suggested, his voice a low murmur. "Go home, get some sleep, I'll pick up Chrissy in another hour or so and take care of dinner. Hmm?"

Across town, she squeezed her eyes shut and ignored the extra moisture she felt forming there. _My hormones are still off balance because of my pregnancy, that's all,_ she thought, sniffing delicately. "I can't do that, Booth. I have work-"

"Which will still be there tomorrow," he pointed out. "What are they going to do, fire you? It's 3:30 so it's not even that early. Go home. Let me take care of you."

"I'm not helpless," she said, but even he could hear the threat of tears in her voice.

"Of course you aren't," he agreed. "But you are human. You need rest and sleep and to think about something other than work." His brown eyes gleamed, his lips curving as a sudden thought struck him. "Go home, Bones. I got this."

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A few hours later Booth quietly let himself in through the garage door, Christine held securely in one arm, grocery bags hanging from his other hand. Music floated from elsewhere in the house; after dropping the groceries on the counter, he stuffed a few chunks of frozen banana into one of the baby's mesh feeders and with her occupied gnawing on her snack tiptoed upstairs to peek into their bedroom. Brennan lay curled on her side facing the door, her face relaxed in sleep. Christine saw her mother, too, and began to bounce in his arms, babbling loudly and waving one chubby, sticky hand toward her. He shushed her quickly and slipped away before Brennan's sleep could be disturbed.

Downstairs he secured Christine in her high chair and added a few small toys and her sippy cup to the tray to keep her occupied while he chopped vegetables at the counter. In between picking up everything she tossed to the floor, playing peekaboo and jabbering nonsense words with her, he finished preparations for dinner and when he was done, carried her in the high chair out to the patio. He found a safe place for her close to the door, ran back in for the platter he'd left on the counter and when he returned, fired up the grill. While she played he pierced the chopped vegetables with skewers, adding chunks of chicken to his and thick slabs of tofu to Brennan's before brushing them with olive oil and sprinkling them with basil and cracked pepper. He was closing the lid of the grill when Brennan stepped out of the house.

"Hey," he smiled. "We were just going to come in and wake you up." He wiped his hands on the towel he'd brought out, watching her lift Christine from the high chair before approaching him, her face raised for his kiss. "Feeling any better?"

Brennan hugged the baby close, laughing as she squealed loudly. "I really am," she nodded. "That was an excellent idea."

Booth lifted the lid of the grill and poked at the skewers. "So maybe you should listen to me a little more often," he teased.

"Perhaps I should," she agreed as she stepped back from the heat and smoke, her smile matching his. "I may have slept too long, however. I hope I don't have difficulty sleeping tonight." She held his gaze flirtatiously.

"I may have an idea or four to help with that, too." He took the few steps necessary to bring him to her side and kissed her again. Their lips clung and held and might have lingered longer but for the baby between them who, having no appreciation for the romance of the moment, let out another of the ear-piercing screeches she'd perfected. Laughing, they separated and pressed kisses into Christine's silky curls and over her head silently promised each other, "_Later_."

They stayed on the patio for dinner, enjoying the warm evening as twilight turned to dusk and deepened into night. The baby was fed and feted and kissed and cuddled and she accepted the attention with the ease of an infant well accustomed to being adored by her parents. Booth watched Brennan nuzzle into Christine's neck and his chest swelled with the intensity of his love for them. Brennan smiled when he buried his face in the tiny belly, drawing out the music of a baby's laughter with his mock-ferocious growl, her throat tightening in awe of this visual proof of dreams she didn't know she'd had coming true.

When laughter turned to fussy cries, she took her daughter upstairs to the pretty yellow nursery and readied her for bed. Swaying gently in the rocking chair she crooned softly as Christine nursed, stroking the tender line of her cheek and wrapping delicate curls around her finger until the bright eyes drifted closed, her thick lashes lying in dark crescents against her skin.

With the baby asleep, she went in search of Booth. The patio was empty, the grill brushed clean and covered, the table cleared. In the kitchen she found the dishwasher loaded and running but not Booth. The living room was quiet and unoccupied, as was the yet-to-be-finished Man Cave. With a shrug she checked windows and doors, confirmed the alarm was activated, and headed upstairs.

When she pushed open the door to their bedroom the first thing she noticed was that the room was dark, the bed empty. The second was the sliver of light shining beneath the closed door leading to the bathroom. The third was the heavy beat of the music throbbing through that closed door.

She noticed one last thing as she stepped further into the bedroom - the sharp, heavy smell of a cigar.

Irritated she rapped once on the bathroom door before opening it. "Booth, are you smoking? I thought we agreed . . ."

Her voice faded into silence. In the midst of the steamy, moist air of the room Booth sat in the tub, facing the doorway, a fat cigar held to his lips. When she froze, stunned, in the middle of the doorway, he deliberately blew out a thick stream of smoke. Fascinated in spite of herself, she watched the vapor as it floated up . . . past the beer hat perched jauntily on his head.

"I . . I don't understand," she stammered. "I lost . . You don't have to . . ."

He stood up, grinning, his arms held wide open. "Baby, you only had to ask!"

This time, she didn't have to be discreet. She didn't have to pretend she wasn't examining every inch of his body, that she wasn't watching the water run in sparkling ribbons over the hard plane of his chest and through the dark hair dusting the thick muscles in his legs. This time, she didn't have to hide that what she really wanted to do was climb into the water with him and let her lips and hands follow every one of those glittering silver threads gliding over his smooth, golden skin.

There were no more barriers between them, no lines keeping the professional and the personal forever separate. No fear that she wasn't what he needed, that she couldn't give him what he deserved.

There was nothing to stop her from giving into the impulse to pounce.

And so she did.

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><p><em>AN: <em>_I had originally planned on saving Brennan's wager, just for the fun of saying "Not telling!" whenever y'all asked about it. Apparently, though, I can't keep a secret. Seriously - don't tell me where you hide the Christmas presents. I'll tell. _


	10. Epiphany

_Another prompt from the Comment Fic Meme dated Feb/March 2010. "_Anonymous_" wrote: B/B making long-term plans and realizing that this is not the sort of thing that just partners do._

_Hmmmmmmm._

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><p>.<br>**_From _merriam-webster: __  
><em>epiphany . . . an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking_**

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"No, I swear," Hannah laughed. She leaned back as the waitress approached with their lunch plates.

"I think you would find that quite difficult," Brennan disagreed, nodding her thanks as she accepted her soup. "You are a very social person. I believe you would find that kind of isolation hard to bear."

"No," Hannah swallowed the small bite she'd just taken from her sandwich. "I mean, I am a social person but when I'm ready to write that tell-all book, I plan on hibernating in some remote cabin in the back of nowhere until it's done. At least a year. Maybe two."

"What's a year or two?" Booth asked as he arrived, having caught only the last part of the conversation. Brennan stirred her soup slowly and focused on spooning up the perfect combination of liquid and vegetables while the couple greeted each other affectionately.

"Temperance and I were discussing writing strategies," Hannah smiled. "She doesn't believe me when I say I'm going to find a hut somewhere and hide when I start naming names and telling tales."

"I think you would find the lack of activity and companionship lonely," Brennan shrugged. "You are accustomed to being in the center of crises around the world. That kind of adrenaline rush can be addictive."

"Well," the blonde dimpled as she nudged Booth with one shoulder, "I'll just have to let Seeley spend a long weekend with me occasionally. That would take the edge off."

"Hey, that's why we have holidays," he agreed with a laugh.

"From a writing standpoint, however," Brennan continued as if the interruption had never happened, "it is true, that the distractions around us can sometimes hinder the ability of a narrative to flow organically from thoughts to words." She swallowed a bite delicately. "I have to admit that I've given some thought to what kind of environment I would prefer when I decide to pursue writing full-time. There's a wonderful little village in Peru with very few amenities where I would have no difficulty concentrating."

Hannah opened her mouth to reply but before she could speak, Booth was already shaking his head.

"No."

Brennan frowned at him over the arm of the waitress who had appeared with his coffee. "Why not?"

"No amenities, Bones?" he pointed out. "That means no TV."

"I could live without TV," she shrugged.

"Well, I can't!" he argued. "What about football season? Hockey?"

"I would be able to link to a satellite, of course," she responded. "You could watch sporting events on the laptop."

Blinking in surprise, Hannah watched them intently.

"For how long?" Booth demanded, his arms crossed over his chest as he stared across the table at his partner.

"If I decided to begin writing full-time it would be a permanent move, obviously," Brennan shrugged, blowing gently on another spoonful of soup. "At a minimum, several years in duration."

"No," he shook his head. "Watching football on a computer is for emergencies, not for all the time. I'm not getting stuck in some village in the middle of nowhere with no TV for years, Bones."

Her presence forgotten, Hannah sat back in her seat and looked from one to the other.

"I need peace and quiet and minimal distractions in order to write, Booth," Brennan insisted. "I don't think asking you to go without football for a few seasons is quite the sacrifice you're making it out to be."

"You can get peace and quiet and still have cable - and indoor plumbing!" he sniped. "What about . . . what about Montana?" He sat back and eyed her triumphantly. "Montana. I know a guy, he bought a cabin up there and says he can go all winter and never see anything but deer. There's your peace and quiet."

"Montana experiences higher than average snowfall in the winter." Brennan pointed her spoon at him. "We could get snowed in for months. How is that different from being isolated in a village in Peru?"

"Cable TV? Electricity? Toilets? That's how it's different. Besides, Bones," he said, folding his arms on the table in front of him and leaning toward her. "Being snowed in? That's something to look forward to."

Neither of them heard the sharply indrawn breath to Booth's left.

Brennan looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then dipped her spoon in the soup again. "I'll consider Montana."

"Yea, well," he muttered, "I'll consider Peru when that village gets ESPN."

Brennan's phone beeped before she could respond. "I have to get back to the lab," she said after reading the message. "Dr. Edison wants me to examine a marker he discovered on his initial review of the remains." She withdrew money from her wallet and laid it on the table. "Hannah, I'm so sorry our lunch was interrupted. Can we reschedule?"

The other woman smiled tightly. "Goodbye, Temperance."

"Call me if that turns out to be anything important," Booth instructed as she got up from the table. After she'd nodded her agreement and left, he turned back to Hannah with a shake of his head. "Can you believe her? Peru? I don't know where she gets these ideas."

Mouth open, she stared at him in amazement. "You don't even see it, do you?"

"Don't see what?" he asked, puzzled.

She laughed shortly, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You and Temperance . . . you . . . you just planned your whole future." She looked away briefly and composed herself. "You both just took it for granted that you'd be together."

He frowned at her. "I don't think that's what we were-"

Hannah nodded. "Temperance mentioned going to some little village in Peru and you just assumed you'd be there, too."

"Well, yea," he agreed immediately. "Where else would I be? I belong with Bo-" His mouth snapped shut.

For several minutes there was silence at the table as the two of them stared at each other. Finally, she tore her eyes from his and took a long drink from the glass of water in front of her.

"Hannah," Booth began, his voice thick with regret.

"Yes, you do," she interrupted, holding his gaze for a moment longer before pushing back from the table. "I'll be gone by the time you get home tonight." She tried to smile, gave up and took one last kiss from him. "We had fun, didn't we, Seeley?" Without waiting for his reply, she hurried out.

It was a long while later before he noticed she was gone.

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><p><em>I believe the appropriate phrase is "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."<em>

_Thanks for reading!  
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	11. After

_A few readers asked for a follow-up chapter for _Epiphany_ and to__ tell the truth, I had a hard time letting it end there, too. After all, Hannah wasn't the only one who had an epiphany._

_(Technically this chapter doesn't belong in this collection but I wanted to keep it with the other one so *hand/wave* - it fits.)  
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The melodic notes of the doorbell intruded abruptly, breaking into her concentration on the pages in front of her. Startled, Brennan dropped the red pen she'd been using to make corrections and edits and glanced at her watch. 12:36 a.m. The bell rang again. Frowning, she stood up and crossed to the door, arching her back as she went to stretch out the kinks left after an evening spent hunched over the manuscript. One hand on the lock, she peered cautiously through the peephole.

"Booth!" She hurried to open the door and stared in surprise at the dripping figure in the hallway. "What in the world . . . Do you know what time it is? Why are you . . . Come in." She pulled him inside and closed the door behind him with a snap, looking him up and down as water puddled at his feet. "Are you okay? Has something happened? Is Parker all right?"

He stuck his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "Yea, Parker's fine," he mumbled. "Nothing's . . . It's not . . . I just . . ."

She held up a hand to silence him. "Stay here. I'll be right back. Don't move!" she ordered before she sped away. He heard her searching through cabinets and drawers and then she was in front of him again, a thick black towel tucked under one arm and a somewhat smaller bundle in the other hand. "Here." She passed over the towel and waited until he'd rubbed the water from his face and arms. "Swim trunks and a t-shirt," she said, offering what was in her other hand. "You left them the last time you were here with Parker," she explained. "Change into these and I'll put what you're wearing now in the dryer." When he looked as if he were going to argue she stood aside and pointed down the hallway. "You're soaked, Booth. Go."

When he returned a few minutes later, she was putting away the mop she'd used to clean up the mess in the foyer. Without a word, she took the wet clothes from his hands and disappeared into a small room behind the kitchen. A metal door opened and closed, there were several small beeps and then the white noise of a clothes dryer tumbling. When she came back they stood looking at each in silence.

Brennan was suddenly, unaccountably, nervous and all too conscious that with her face scrubbed free of makeup and wearing only soft knit pants and a thin tank top, she didn't look her best. "Would you like something to drink?"

One side of his mouth crooked up in an attempt at a smile. "Sure."

"I'll make some coffee." She nodded toward the living room. "Have a seat, it won't take long."

When she joined him a few minutes later, she smiled at the somewhat incongruous image he made sitting on her sofa in his brightly patterned trunks and white t-shirt, his hair mussed from the rough towel-drying he'd given it. "You are more appropriately dressed for an afternoon at the pool than a surprise visit at midnight." She set both mugs on the table and looked at her watch. "12:52 a.m., to be precise." She kept her eyes on him as he leaned forward and picked up his coffee.

"Did I interrupt your writing?" he asked, sipping the hot liquid carefully as his head dipped toward the scattering of pages.

"No," she shook her head. "I'm revising a textbook I published a few years ago. There have been several significant advances in science and technology so a new edition is necessary."

"Ah," he nodded. Silence fell between them again.

"Why are you here, Booth?" The question escaped her before she could prevent it. He looked drawn and weary and it tugged at her in ways she didn't understand.

He wrapped both hands around the mug and stared into the drink. "Hannah left," he said finally.

"Oh." Brennan looked at him curiously. "Will she be gone long? Is the location dangerous? Is that what's wrong?"

Booth laughed without humor. "No, Bones." He set the coffee down on the table. "She left me," he said without inflection. Taking a deep breath he settled back on the sofa and looked at her. "She packed her stuff. She's gone."

Brennan sat in stunned silence. "What? I don't understand." Her forehead knitted in confusion. "We just had lunch . . . She was fine earlier. The two of you were-" She looked away for a moment. "What happened? Why would she just leave? Did she give you a reason?"

He hesitated briefly, his jaw tightening. "You know when we were talking about Peru today?"

Her jaw dropped. "She left you because we talked about going to Peru? That makes no sense, Booth! That wasn't . . . That was hypothetical, it wasn't an announcement! I thought she understood that." Her face reflected her shock. "That sort of drastic change would require months - years! - of planning and preparation . . . I . . . I haven't discussed it with Dr. Saroyan or the board of the Jeffersonian." She held out a hand toward him. "You certainly haven't spoken with the FBI-"

"Bones," he interrupted suddenly, his gaze intent on her. "Did it ever occur to you that I might not go with you?"

Her body jerked. "Well, no," Brennan stared back at him, a line forming between her brows. "You . . . you don't want to . . . Oh." The color drained from her face and then just as suddenly flooded back, her cheeks glowing red and hot. "Of course." She sat back against the couch and concentrated on her hands while she struggled for composure. "Of course. You have Hannah." She took a deep breath and forced a smile that clashed heartbreakingly with the anguish clearly visible in the eyes she lifted to meet his. "You have Hannah," she repeated, "so of course you wouldn't want . . . I . . . I wasn't thinking . . . Oh, no." Her expression became almost frantic. She reached a hand out to him but drew it back quickly before she made contact. "Is that why Hannah . . ." She looked away, blinking rapidly as tears clouded her vision. "I'm sorry, Booth," she apologized, her sincerity as obvious as her pain. "It's my fault, isn't it? Because I just assumed . . ." She bit off the words, her lips tightly closed as she took another deep breath. "I'll call her," she nodded. "I'll call her right now and make sure she understands that it was a mistake, that I . . ."

His hand on her knee stopped her when she began to rise from the couch. "Bones." She stilled under his touch immediately. "It didn't occur to me, either. That I wouldn't go with you," he added, his voice rasping like sandpaper over velvet in the quiet room.

She couldn't look away from him. There was a quality to his gaze she couldn't interpret, that she was afraid to define. "I don't . . . I . . ." Her chest rose and fell rapidly, the short, panting breaths all she was capable of at that moment. "What does that mean?" Her words came out in a whisper.

The few seconds of silence that followed were heavy with possibility, both of them suddenly conscious of what hung in the balance of his response. The air thickened until for both of them, it became a physical effort to breathe.

Suddenly, Brennan became aware of the heat of his hand still resting on her knee, the thumb rubbing back and forth repeatedly in a gesture she didn't think he was even aware of.

"It means I've been walking for hours and didn't even notice it had been raining until I knocked on your door," Booth said finally, his voice as low as hers had been. "It means when I think about the rest of my life, you're in it." She stopped breathing. "When I see myself as an old man, you're right beside me." The breath she released held more than a hint of tears. He pulled his gaze from hers finally and looked down at his hand on her knee. "It means I've treated Hannah badly."

"No!" she blurted out, her head shaking violently. "No, Booth, you haven't . . . we never . . ."

"No, we didn't," he agreed, looking back at her. "We put the whole globe between us and yet," dark eyes met shimmering blue, "here we are again. And everyone can see what we are but us. Hannah saw it." His stare intensified. "We have to fix this, Bones. You understand that, right?" he asked. "We can't keep doing this. It has to be different this time."

And then it was him holding his breath and counting heartbeats until finally, she nodded. "How?" she asked tentatively, unsure of herself in a way she'd never been before. "What do we do? What happens next?"

He lifted his hand from her knee, rested his arms on his thighs and laced his fingers together, studying them while he spoke. "Well, first I have to apologize to Hannah - if she'll talk to me." When he glanced over, Brennan nodded her understanding. "And then," he shrugged, "we'll see. It will take time," he added, and then smiled for the first time that night. "We'll figure it out, though, right? If we both want it? We're pretty smart."

She smiled back, a quick quirk of the lips that reflected the relief she felt at the sudden lifting of the burden she'd carried for so many months. "Yes," she agreed. "We are."

A loud buzz came from the kitchen, signaling the end of the dryer cycle. "I'll see if your things are dry," she murmured and escaped quickly. She folded his jeans and t-shirt by rote, her thoughts a confusing jumble of words and images and feelings she wasn't quite ready to explore and define. He stood up when she came back carrying the neatly stacked garments; with a whispered thanks, he took them from her and disappeared down the hallway.

He was back almost instantly, still tugging the shirt down over his abdomen. "I left the trunks and the other shirt on the counter," he told her. "I figured-"

"Yes," she said, when his voice trailed off. "I'm glad you did."

His movement sudden, he hooked an elbow around her shoulders and pulled her into a hug, wrapping both arms around her to hold her tightly against his chest. He let his cheek rest against her hair and stared toward the door without seeing it. She linked her arms around his waist, rested her chin on his shoulder and looking in the other direction, did the same thing.

For several minutes they simply stood there together, their shadows melding into one person. The moment wasn't sexual, it was . . . cathartic. For the first time, they had acknowledged to each other a desire for and a belief in a future they could share. In the silence of this embrace they spoke of fear and hope, of love and loneliness, of forgiveness and acceptance. For that moment, in the hour when night was part of the morning, it was enough.

Booth squeezed his arms around her one last time, pulled back and pressed a kiss against her forehead. "Goodnight, Bones. I'll see you tomorrow."

"It's after midnight," she replied. "Do you mean tomorrow or later today?" That earned her a laugh and another quick, hard hug.

"I'll come get you for lunch, how's that?"

She nodded and stepped back. "Goodnight, Booth." He looked at her without speaking, smiled again and left.

She closed the door behind him.

He waited for the sound of the deadbolt turning.

She sank down on the sofa and reached out to touch the handle of his still warm coffee mug.

He stood for several minutes in the unmoving elevator before he remembered to push the button for the ground floor.

And truth be told, neither of them slept that night.

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><p><em>So, I'm officially on vacation until July 24. I have nothing planned other than doing whatever the hell I want to do so I had a thought that I might just write something different every day. A chapter, an OS, whatever. Just to see if I can._

_So, consider that your warning. Take me off alert now or no complaining about the spam. No hard feelings - I'd roll my eyes if I got an email every day, too. :-D  
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_Thanks for reading!  
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	12. Three Things

_You know where we haven't been in a while? Wong Fu's. Wanna go back there? Me, too! :-) _

_(This little bit of holiday fluff is set in S4, between _Passenger in the Oven_ and _The Bone That Blew_, based on air dates.)  
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Brennan was rinsing out her coffee cup when her phone beeped.

_hey __u __up__?_

_Yes, of course. It__'__s __almost__ 8:00 __a__.__m__. __Good __morning__._

_morning__. __doing __anything__ 2__day__?_

_I __thought __I __might __go __into __the __lab __for __a __few __hours__._

_its __thxgiving __bones_

_Yes__, __I __know__. __The __only __employees __there __will __be __security __personnel __so __I __should __be __able __to __concentrate __on __my __work __without __interruption__._

_skip __the __lab__. __rebecca __has __the __flu __so __i __have __parker __w__/__me__. __want __to __have __lunch __w__/__us__?_

_You__'__re __preparing __Thanksgiving __dinner__?_

_no__, __we __r __going__ 2 __wong __fus__._

_Is __it __open __for __business __today__?_

_yep__. __already __called sid  
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Brennan stared at the screen for a moment and mentally compared the silence and solitude of her office to the image of a meal shared with a laughing little boy. Her decision was quickly reached.

_I __appreciate __the __invitation__. __Yes__, __I__ would enjoy having lunch with you and Parker._

_great__! __well __pick __u __up __around__ 1._

_I __can __meet __you __there__._

_well __pick __u __up__. __Parker __insists__ :)_

_Then __please __give __Parker __my __thanks__. __I__'__ll __be __ready __when __you __arrive__._

_k_

The knock on her door came a few minutes shy of 1:00 pm. "Hi, Dr. Brennan!" Parker beamed up at her from beneath the usual crop of messy curls.

"Hello, Parker," she smiled in response before her eyes lifted to the man behind him. "Thank you for inviting me to join you."

He shrugged. "I figured since you said you weren't going to North Carolina . . ."

Her brow creased as she looked the two of them over. "I feel somewhat under-dressed," she murmured as she compared the khakis and sweaters they wore to her own simple jeans. "Perhaps I should change."

"No, don't worry about it," Booth shook his head. "You look great."

"I should have taken into account the significance of the occasion," she disagreed. "I believe I would feel more comfortable if my attire matched yours. I'll be right back."

As she disappeared down the hallway to her bedroom, Parker looked up at his father with a frown. "What did she say?"

Booth laughed and ruffled the boy's hair. "She's changing clothes so she'll look as spiffy as we do."

"Girls." Parker rolled his eyes.

He nodded wisely. "Get used to waiting, son. It's what men do."

They didn't wait long, however, as she was back in short order dressed in slim black slacks and a silky lavender blouse that shimmered as she moved. When she pulled her coat from the closet, Booth stepped forward to hold it for her while she slipped it on.

Parker controlled the conversation with bright commentary and a barrage of questions that lasted from the moment Brennan locked her apartment to Booth holding open the door of Wong Fu's. She learned Rebecca had been sick for two days, that Booth had made pancakes for breakfast and that as far as Parker was concerned, pumpkin pie was the best part of Thanksgiving dinner. He wanted to know why she was alone for the day (because her brother was traveling with his wife's family), why she wanted to work when she could have a day off (she could concentrate better without the distractions of a busy lab) and why she still didn't own a television (her free time was taken up with other activities).

Booth simply listened to the non-stop chatter between the two of them and smiled.

At the restaurant, he surprised Brennan by shepherding them to an oval-shaped booth. "Isn't the bar your territory?" she reminded him archly.

"Special occasion, Bones," he answered with a shrug as he allowed Parker to scoot in between the two of them. "Just go with it."

Sid approached with a welcoming smile, followed by a waitress with a tray of drinks. "Happy Thanksgiving, my friends," he said as he and Booth clasped hands.

"I want pumpkin pie!" Parker chirped. "A really big piece, with whipped cream!"

"Well," the big man laughed, "I'm glad I just happen to have one on hand." He stepped back as two other waiters approached carrying full plates. "Just let me know when you're ready." He patted Booth's shoulder. "Enjoy."

"This looks delicious," Brennan said appreciatively as she picked up her fork.

"Wait!" Parker exclaimed before she could take a bite. "What about the three things, Dad?" he asked Booth. "It's Thanksgiving!"

"Oh, right." Booth nodded. "It's a tradition we have," he explained to Brennan. "Pops started it with me and Jared when we were little. You know, Thanksgiving, giving thanks . . . " He looked at her a bit uncertainly. "We tell each other three things we're thankful for before we eat. Do you mind?"

"No, of course not." She put down the fork immediately. "Traditions are very important. They serve as a way to strengthen the bonds between members of a group. Shared experiences -"

Booth raised one hand. "How 'bout we just go with 'traditions are important'?" he asked with a smirk, then turned to Parker. "You can go first, sport."

Parker dangled an empty fork from his lips as he considered his options. "Um . . . I'm thankful for you and Mom," he grinned at Booth. "And . . . I'm thankful Sid didn't give me any broccoli," with a grimace at his plate. His face scrunched and then brightened. "And I'm thankful we have a whole week off from school!"

Booth chuckled. "Good job, buddy." He squeezed Parker's shoulder. "Let's see - I'm thankful for you, and for Pops and Jared." He paused a moment. "I'm thankful to live in this country and for the freedoms we have." He caught Brennan's eye then and lifted his glass. "And I'm thankful for good friends," he finished softly.

Her lips curved in response before she picked up her fork. "That was a lovely moment. I enjoyed your tradition."

"Your turn, Dr. Brennan." Parker stared at her expectantly.

"My turn?" She looked at Booth in surprise.

He nodded as he raised his arm to the back of the seat behind his son. "What was it you said? Share the experience?"

"Alright." She placed the fork across the edge of her plate. "Well . . . I'm thankful that I have reconnected with my brother." She didn't quite meet Booth's eyes as she continued in a murmur, "and my father." A line formed between her eyebrows and then disappeared. "I'm also thankful for the Jeffersonian and the support they provide for my work." She hesitated briefly and then looked directly at Booth. "And I am thankful for our partnership," she told him. "I find it very rewarding."

He blinked in surprise and then offered her a wide, happy grin. "Wow." He inclined his head toward her. "Thanks, Bones."

"You're welcome." Her hand hovered above her fork. "Are there any other traditions to honor or may we begin eating now?"

"Tuck in!" Booth ordered cheerfully.

Silverware clinked against china as they began to eat. "My teacher told us about the first Thanksgiving." Parker spoke between mouthfuls of potatoes. "I think it was nice of the Pilgrims to share their food with the Indians."

Brennan shook her head. "That's inaccurate. The first recorded day of Thanksgiving was actually celebrated after the massacre of the Pequot Indian tri-"

"No!" Booth hurried to cut her off. "Thanksgiving is about the Pilgrims and Indians having dinner together."

"That story is a myth, Booth," she stated. "The injuries inflicted on the indigenous population-"

"Pilgrims, Bones," Booth said. "Tall hats, square-toed shoes. They wore a lot of black." He looked at Parker who was staring avidly from one to the other. "The Indians brought pumpkin pie."

"That is simply not-"

"Hey!" Booth smiled brightly. "Did you know Parker can make a turkey out of the outline of his hand?"

Parker made a noise of disgust. "Dad, that's baby stuff. I'm seven!"

"Show Bones the turkey, Parker."

"Dad-"

"He should be taught the truth-"

"Fine, I'll draw the turkey. Who's got a pen?"

From behind the bar, Sid watched the ruckus at their table and hid his laughter. His customers always provided the best entertainment.

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><p><em>I'm thankful for my family, for my children and grandchildren and the new baby who'll be here in June.<em>

_I'm thankful for the life I have. In a world where too many do without, I'm fortunate and I'm grateful.  
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_I'm thankful for this little hobby and the fun I have with it, and for you, because you're willing to read my scribblings.  
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_Whether you're in the US or somewhere else on the globe, Happy Thanksgiving!  
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